Sick as a Kitten
by Hermisia
Summary: Diego learns that 'quit' is not in Mia's vocabulary.  Nor, apparently, is 'basic self preservation.' Written for the PW kink meme on LJ.  This is some pretty shameless waff with more or less no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Diego x Mia pairing.
1. INFECTION!

In a perfect universe, Diego Armando would have been smacking his boss right then. Right that second. Or better yet, he would have smacked him three days ago, when the old fool had the gal to give his kitten the Ivan Framed case. A man tried years ago, and set to be executed within a month, when it came to light that the prosecutors office had "overlooked" a rather crucial piece of evidence during its investigation.

"Miss Fey seemed to take such an interest in a case like this before, it seems just the thing to get her old pep back. Get back on the horse and all that. "

Grossberg, for his part, viewed dedication to the job as some sort of strange foreign custom: one he must respect out of adherence to the politically correct, but not one he ever understood of was entirely comfortable with. Oh, he knew about working hard and striving for success, but the idea of real emotional investment was far beyond him. It wasn't beyond Mia Fey though, oh no.

He'd tried to talk her out of it, when she'd first agreed to it, but she wouldn't hear a word of it. He'd told her again, a day later, when there were bags under her eyes and he couldn't remember seeing her leave that desk once in the past day save using her lunch break to head down to the precinct to get more files to pour through, he told her that he wouldn't be disappointed in her if she gave it up. "Discretion is the better part of valor, Kitten."

"I have to do this, Mr. Armando." she replied, shaking her head. He shrugged and put down a mug of his favorite blend the way she liked it (Lots of cream, not milk, thank you, and no sugar. If there was anything classier than a girl who knew just how she liked her Jo, Armando had yet to find it.)

"No, Mia. You don't."

It wasn't until he was leaving the second day of her attempt to make sense of the Framed case that he began to worry in earnest. Her usually bright eyes were dull and bloodshot. Her usually soft and glossy hair was tangled and clumpy. Her mouth was set at a constant worried frown. She had been staying later than him and arriving earlier (though, to be fair, this was how it generally went) but he had to wonder how much earlier and how much later was she there.

"Don't work yourself too hard now." He said, removing the barely touched, ice cold mug and replacing it with a fresh one.

"Mm." She agreed, not even looking up.

By the end of the third day, she was a complete mess. The normal pristine posture she held herself with had been reduced to a hunch over the reports and interview transcripts and photographs. Her hands were shaking when she took accepted the mug from him, and if she noticed the steaming liquid was being splashed on her fingers she gave no indication. He told Grossberg that he was going to take the case himself, then. A real man wouldn't allow the runnings of his firm to be dictated by a single hot-shot employee, but luckily for Armando, his his boss just didn't fit that category.

"Fey." He said, clapping a hand over her shoulder when he came to deliver the news.

"His sister." she replied, quietly.

"Come again?"

"His sister." She turned stiffly and looked up at him, her bagged, blearly eyes shining, "Irma Framed." She handed him a legal pad full of her notes. As he flipped through it, she stood up slowly and walked to the far corner of her tiny office. He would have offered her a hand, but he was too engrossed in what she had handed him to even remember to take sips of his brew. He read through page after page of it, looking back and forth between the pages of her sometimes elegant, but here mostly scratchy script and the evidence it was referencing. It was all there: the conveniently missing murder weapon, the little sister too "traumatized" to appear in court, the discrepancies in the testimonies of the two so-called "eye witnesses" that had been called. If they could get the girl to testify even once, this thing was in the bag.

"Mia" he said, finally looking over to where she was leaning against the wall, "this is brilliant." She smiled and raised a shaking hand to flip her bangs, before her knees gave way and she toppled gracelessly to the ground. He dropped the pad and was at her side in an instant, propping her up and doing his best to make sure she hadn't hurt herself on the way down. "Hell, Kitten. I thought I told you not to work yourself too hard." Her eyes didn't open but she mumbled something incoherent in response. Swearing under his breath, he picked her up carefully and carried her to one of the couches in lobby. It didn't seem likely that they would be having any clients in at that time of day anyway, and if the old man didn't like him commandeering the furniture, well he could kiss Armando's ass.

While his heart told him that the thing for exhaustion would be a black Americcano, his mind told him that a glass of water might be a better idea. He lifted her head, which lolled to the side, and placed one of the cushions under it before heading to the water cooler.

"Wait here," he said, not really expecting an answer, but with Mia Fey, he found, it's always good to be clear.

She was just starting to come around when he got back.

"Hm... Mr. Armando?" she asked, blinking up at him, bewildered.

"Easy, Kitten," he said, giving her his lopsided grin. She declined his assistance in sitting up, but did accept the water gratefully and began to sip it slowly. "Don't take this the wrong way now, but you look like death warmed over, and given how you know I think you look normally, you can see why this is cause for concern. Even the greatest defense attorneys do need to sleep, you know."

She looked down at the paper cup in her hands. "I've... slept."

"Ha...!" He stood up and grabbed both their coats. "If there is a single less reassuring way you could have phrased that, I don't know what it is." She didn't seem to fully process his words, and just blinked at the coats a bit.

"What are you doing?"

"Quitting time," he said, tossing his own on, before holding out hers, "At least for you it is." Her face still showed uncertainty, but as if on autopilot she put one arm and then the other in and began fiddling with the zipper. Any doubt then that his kitten had decided to forgo sleep for the last few days was banished. After a few failed attempts, he got down on one knee and took it out of her still slightly shaking hands, "Let me." She nodded and removed her hands, allowing him to zip it up.

"AAAAHEMHEMHEM." There was a loud clearing of a throat behind them as he helped her up on shaky feet. Armando turned to see their boss twitching his mustache anxiously. "Dear boy, just what is going on here? Headed out for a late lunch, hm?"

"Cram it, old man!" he called, "Fey here did all the work on the Framed case, you could take it to trial yourself while asleep. Lose this case and I swear you're out your best two employees."

"Hohoho, you two youngsters have fun then," he replied as the door slammed behind the couple.

"Up yours!" called Armando from the hallway.

Mia, for her part, couldn't have possibly been more confused. Her senior was right, of course, she hadn't slept since Grossberg put the case file in her hands a few days previously. It hadn't been her intention, of course, but after the first day of pouring over the files, whenever she closed her eyes, they were all she could see. Well, they were at first. As she had lain in her bed that night, the thin, weary face of Framed warped and mutated until it was indistinguishable from that of the man she had defended only a few months ago. Terry Fawles. She had tried everything she could think of to banish the images of his last painful moments from her mind, but soon enough his suffering face was joined by the saccharine-sweet smiles of of "lover" Dahlia Hawthorne. She went through every insomnia cure she knew, but by the next morning found that the only thing that would keep the demons at bay was a good dose of ibuprofen, caffeine, and burying herself headfirst in the Framed case.

But now that all of that was lying sprawled on her desk, the mystery unraveled, his fate averted, she felt empty. Her head hurt and her joints ached. The world was coming at her through disorienting and painful tunnel vision. Most of these, she knew well to be simply symptoms of sleep deprivation. She had, after all, been a college student once. But in addition to the simple bodily exhaustion, the ghost of Hawthorne's smile was never far from her thoughts. It made her feel ill. Or maybe that was the sleep deprivation. Whatever it was, she was grateful for Armando's warm, solid presence beside her.

"I think I need some sleep." she said, finally, when they entered the elevator. Her companion chuckled softly.

"Always knew you were a sharp cookie." He took a sip from his mug and offered it to her, which she declined, her stomach in knots. "I do wish you'd use all that brain power of your just a touch sooner though. Did you drive today?"

"Mm," she shook her head. She didn't add that she hadn't trusted herself behind the wheel, preemptively cutting off his chance to agree with her, "I took the bus."

"Good," he grinned, "that means I can drive you home."

The rest of the walk to the car was passed in silence. Mia spent the time and the majority of her mental energy into putting one foot in front of the other and holding on to consciousness. Having gone more than fifty hours without sleep now it was harder than she would have anticipated. The drive to solve Mr. Framed's case had sustained her until that point, but now that there was nothing left for her to do but worry, she couldn't keep the ghosts from her last case at bay. What would happen to him? Would he be granted his freedom again? Or would another innocent man take the fall for a woman who he believed loved him, and worse, a family member.

Diego frowned when he looked at her thin lips pursed together. He didn't know exactly what was going through her mind, but he had a guess, and that guess included a certain cute redhead, one sad man and a little vial of poison. That was how she was- always trying to take the whole weight of the world on her little shoulders. In a way, it was admirable, and endearing; that big heart was one of the things he loved best about her. But in another way, it was just plane silly. She was going to have to learn to disconnect eventually, but for now, Diego could settle for making sure she got a decent night's sleep.

He held the car door open for her and she smiled gratefully at him as she climbed in to his black Accord.

"Your place or mine," he joked as he started the car.

"Yours, please," she replied without thinking. His eyes flickered over to her and he raised an eyebrow. "I... I didn't mean..."

"Ha...!" He did know that the nightmares were still with her from time to time. He had woken, on occasion, to her screaming at him not to drink, or babbling incoherently about "red" or a bloodless, tearless woman. It was a rare enough thing for Mia to actually ask for comfort, though. Even the roughest ones she would dismiss as "nothing" upon awakening. He wouldn't make her ask twice now. "I'll be sleeping on the couch then." She raised her head from where she had slumped against the window.

"I... I don't mean to impose, Diego... if you..." he leaned forward and turned on the radio. Latin rock, as always. Ignoring her protest entirely, he began to sing along, turning to stare at her suggestively as he chorused certain lines that she couldn't understand. "Thank you," she said quietly, sinking back into her seat.

All too soon the car was stopped and there was a hand shaking her shoulder lightly. She moaned and tried to turn away from the intrusion to no avail.

"Come on, Kitten," came Diego's voice from near her ear, "wouldn't you rather be curled up in an actual bed?" She mumbled out some response and tried to pull away again, her stiffened muscles protesting any sort of motion at all. "On your feet," he said, and suddenly there was no passenger seat below her. Her legs came out instinctively to catch her and soon enough she was standing on shaky legs as he locked the car behind her. She shook her head trying to clear the haze, but regretted it immediately. Her head felt like it was about to rip apart, and she hissed in pain through clenched teeth. Diego put his arm around her waste and started walking them towards his apartment with a chuckle. "And what did you learn here, Mia?"

"I learned never to fall asleep to your singing."

"Oof," he said, unlocking the door to his apartment and ushering her in. "Even sleep deprived, my kitten has sharp claws." She smiled slightly, but said nothing.

She had spent enough nights there that she had the very basic of toiletries, and never had she been more happy for it. It didn't take long for her to get her long brown hair combed out and in a braid, her teeth brushed, and her suit to be discarded in favor of a huge shirt of Diego's. There was a token struggle put up for her right to take the couch and allow her beau his own bed, but her objections were quickly over-ruled.

Finally laying down was every bit as blissful as she had pictured it all that day. No sheets had ever felt crisper, no mattress as soft. The bed smelled deliciously of Diego as she snuggled down into it. No more than five minutes after she had lain down, Diego himself came in to ask her if she wanted a glass of water, but found her already asleep. He placed a soft kiss on her cheek and then left the room without a word, flicking off the lights behind him. 


	2. OUTBREAK!

The next thing Mia was aware of she was being sat up, and Diego's voice was speaking to her, as if from very far away. She couldn't figure out why he was waking her. The sun hadn't even set yet. Couldn't he see she was trying to sleep?

"...en those big brown eyes, Kitten," she made out, "this isn't going to work unless I get a little help." With a final groan of protest, she acquiesced. The shades had been drawn, but still a little light poured in under the curtains. For the most part though, there was just the dim glow of his bedside lamp. Diego was sitting next to her holding an electronic thermometer in one hand. A plastic bag from the local drugstore was in his lap. "Good," he said when she finally managed to look at him, "Open up."

She opened her mouth, not necessarily on his command, but rather to ask him why he was waking her up. None-the-less, the moment is was open, the thermometer was there under her tongue and Diego was pushing her chin back closed again. The instrument chirped, signaling that it had started its reading.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, smoothing the few stray strands of hair that had escaped her braid away from her face.

"Mmf," she replied from around the thermometer.

"Right, right. Keep it in there," he chuckled, "Yes or no answers then. Did you sleep alright?" She nodded, slowly, "Glad to hear it. And would you say that you... feel like a steam roller ran over your head?" She nodded again. "I kind of thought so. Looks like my kitten is sick as a dog."

"Fffhk?" she tried speaking around the thermometer again. Sick? How could she be sick? She wasn't sick when she went to bed. But... she couldn't argue with it. She did feel fairly miserable. All her joints ached, her stomach was in knots and her head felt like it was ready to crack open at any moment. The thermometer chirped again. Diego pulled it out of her mouth and frowned at the results.

"Yeah, Kitten, sick. You should go back to sleep."

"Mmhm," she agreed, as it really did sound like one of the most excellent ideas she had ever heard, "but the trial tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow?" he asked, putting the thermometer down on the nightstand, "Mia, sweetheart, it's morning. You've been asleep almost 18 hours." At that, she was up with a start, trying to throw off the blankets, but his arms were instantly around her, holding her back, "Whoah, whoah, where do you think you're going?"

"Mr. Framed... the trial..." her hands went to the arms holding her back, trying to pull him off, but what little struggle she had put up was already as much as she had in her, and she began to sag against him.

"Is being handled by the old man himself," he said as she went limp, and his arms went from the force holding her back to her only support, "you're in absolutely no condition to be objecting your way out of a wet paper bag."

"Mr. Framed..." she said again, leaning on to him. He held her against him with one arm while the other moved back to pick something up off the bedside table, "I need to..."

"You need to stay right where you are," he cut her off, "here, I bought you some ibuprofen. It'll bring your fever down a bit and make sure you keep sleeping well." With that he pressed a couple of pills into her hand and held out a glass of water. She put the pills in her mouth and he helped her lift the glass. Until she tasted the cool water she hadn't realized how thirsty she was, and drank the whole glass. "Do you want me to get some more," Diego asked. Mia shook her head slightly.

"No... thank you, I just... want to go back to sleep." she said. She did her best to enunciate the words, but still they came out slurred.

"Sounds like a plan to me then. Call if you need anything," he replied, helping her back down to the bed and pulling up the blankets.

"Mm," she agreed. This attention made her uncomfortable, slightly, even if it was just Diego, but there wasn't much to be done about it now. She closed her eyes and it wasn't long before she sensed him turning off the light and leaving her alone again.

She slept again for a while, but the fever became intolerably uncomfortable. She kicked of the sheets, drenched in sweat one minute and shivered the next. Time stretched and warped until she was unsure if she had spent minutes hours or days drifting in and out of a shallow and fitful sleep. Eventually she felt the bed dip down beside her, and she realized that she wasn't alone.

"Mr. Armando...?" she asked. All she got in response was a command to hush and relax. She felt more than saw him leaning over her, and then something cool was pressing against her forehead. A small surprised gasp left her lips at its touch.

"Feel any better?" he asked, moving the damp washcloth from her forehead down to one of her cheeks. She nodded, but kept her eyes closed. Against her feverish skin, the cooling touch was blissful. For several minutes she lay still and let him attend her, but despite her best efforts to relax, she could feel a warmth creeping into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the fever.

"You don't... have to..." she said, finally looking up at him. His hand paused, just for a moment, before returning the washcloth to the bowl of ice-water on the table. He took a sip of his coffee and then began wringing the cloth out again.

"Don't have to, Kitten?" he asked, as he laid it on her forehead. She let out a small noise.

"I mean... you... I..." she felt silly. Her mind was muddled and her tongue felt heavy. She pursed cracked lips as her usual eloquence failed her, "I would be okay... you don't need to..."

"Mia..." he said, tilting her chin to the side, so that she was looking at him, and held her gaze, just for a moment. She seemed to have trouble focusing, "I know you've always gotta be fighting something, but there's nothing here for you to be fighting but that cold."

"Independent... I need to..." she said, quietly. Diego let out a low chuckle.

"And anyone who would claim otherwise would have to be blind or an idiot, Kitten," he said, grinning down at her, "being independant doesn't mean you have to be alone, though." She cracked open one eye and returned his smile. "So you just settle down and concentrate on kicking this thing's ass, huh?"

"Mm... love you." she managed to mumble out.

She didn't hear his answer.

* * *

La Short chapter because I am having a bitch of a time writing the next scene. So I'm going to be a giant hooker and just call it a chapter there. 


End file.
